


Tilting Sideways

by kanadka



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Chains, Episode: s06e06 Abyss (Stargate), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/kanadka
Summary: Ba'al's torture tactics keep Jack constantly on his feet, especially when he's sitting down and can't move.
Relationships: Ba'al/Jack O'Neill
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Tilting Sideways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluehair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehair/gifts).



Part of the difficulty of things like Jack's situation is the not-knowing. Not knowing whether the Tok'ra grew a pair and fessed up to the fact that they lost their asset who was taken prisoner, or whether the Tok'ra would do their usual Tok'ra thing and just pretend there were no problems, so Stargate Command would never know that the host - Jack himself - was lost in the first place. Not knowing whether the Tok'ra would say that he was lost and that they should call off the search, and not knowing if it looked bad enough that Stargate Command actually bought it. They'd done that once with Daniel. Threw him a fake funeral and everything.

Then Daniel went and _really_ died, which was really rude of him, and it wasn't something that could be faked, or implanted as a memory, or somehow doctored reality.

See, the doctoring of reality is what really gets you, in the end, and the not knowing feeds into that in a major way.

Like right now.

So, normally when Jack wakes, it's in the sarcophagus. Not this time. This time he's pinned down, not by the gravity field but in a chair. His wrists wear thick, heavy shackles of a brilliant gold. An enamel pattern the rich colour of lapis runs through the centre. They almost look like bracelets, except that he can't move his wrists, because the shackles are attached to a thick gold chain which wraps around his forearm over and over, pinning it to the arms of his chair from wrist to elbow. He must have been here awhile, because the metal no longer feels cold on his bare skin.

Actually, there's a lot of bare skin. His shirt is gone. He wears a skimpy thing of leather fringes painted the usual garish Goa'uld gold around his waist and absolutely nothing else. From the way he sits in the chair and from the feeling of his thighs and backside, the fringes go all the way around, and it's a skirt. Well, isn't that nice, thinks Jack archly, easier access.

The fringes are thin, like a cowboy jacket's. They pool attractively down his upper thighs; they drip between them. The coverage is so flimsy he couldn't even adjust himself for some propriety if he wanted to. Jack tries the shackles; nothing, no give.

This is all part of it. The not knowing. The doctoring of reality. This is a situation that's just sort of skew to normal. _Normally_ if Ba'al wants to get frisky and it's quite frankly a little _much_ that Jack is thinking about this but it's not the first time, he just bends him over and goes to town. Gags him if he gets mouthy (Jack gets mouthy every chance he gets). Binds him if he squirms too much, or gets one of his Jaffa to hold him down while the god takes what the god wants.

But like this, he's on display. Like a prize.

Jack lolls his head to the side. "Something wrong with my fatigues?" he drawls.

There's a noise from behind him. "Ah," says Ba'al in his throaty, thick voice. "It's about time you woke. I thought you'd sleep the day."

So, no answer about the fatigues. Okay.

"How'd you get me from the sarcophagus to here?" asks Jack. He adds, "And at what point did you think up the 'slave Leia'? I'm missing the buns, by the way." Dress him up, he's still foul old Jack, and unless Ba'al gags him again, that's what he's getting.

Ba'al appears at his side and pulls up a chair for himself. He's resplendent in a rich black robe with silvery embroidery that exposes his chest to his navel, held closed with a large embellished belt. He looks Jack up and down like he wants to devour him with the confidence of someone who can and will do absolutely that and there is _nothing Jack can do to stop him_.

Jack's got no idea what Ba'al sees in him. The power, probably, it's always about power and never really about lust.

What Ba'al's _not_ wearing is his usual, customary smirk. Well, Ba'al isn't as smart as he thinks he is, or Jack isn't as dumb as Ba'al thinks he is, or maybe both. 

Ba'al pulls out the healing device and slips it on. Then he activates it and points it at Jack's chest. There are no wounds from what Jack can see but - god help him - it does feel better.

Kindness isn't something a Goa'uld knows. Kindness is a mindgame tactic designed to get under Jack's skin. Goa'uld get bored too damn easy - it had barely taken any time before torture and killing just wasn't fun for Ba'al any more. Had to get his kicks elsewhere. Guess Ba'al's appetites are legion. Then it became torture and sex, and _then_ killing. Just as Jack's mortification had given way to grin-and-bear-it, it was torture and sex alone. Ba'al had stopped being so rough that Jack needed resurrection, and he'd started being sweeter. Sickly sweet.

"I didn't hurt you enough for the sarcophagus this time," says Ba'al, "don't you remember?"

Jack tries to. Honestly, he does. Memory's a bit hazy. Everything's been a bit hazy recently. Frankly, the sarcophagus is mind-altering on its own, but not like this...

Which means that Ba'al's been using drugs. 

No, Jack doesn't remember a damn thing.

"We-ell, I hope I struggled," says Jack, in a mockingly amiable tone. "But you seem fine so I take it I didn't go for the face like the time before. That black eye and puffy lip sure did something for me."

Ba'al gives him that tight smile. The hand with the healing device moves to a site above Jack's left kidney; with his other hand he smooths a path from the jawline to the nipple. There's no scar but Ba'al's cut him up on that line once before. As he circles the nipple, toying with it, capturing the bead of it between two fingertips and rolling his fingers back and forth, he says gently, "No. That was the time before that."

Jack's heart sinks nearly as fast as his cock is rising and he hates both of them for reacting. He fights to control his breathing but with this skimpy outfit Ba'al can see everything and with Ba'al's hand on his chest he can probably feel Jack's anxiety. God, has he really lost this much?

How long has it been? How long has it truly been?

"At any rate, I don't see what makes you think you were in the sarcophagus recently," continues Ba'al. "You drank, you slept, in my bed, with me." He leans closer and murmurs deep and dark in Jack's ear. "This time you begged me for it. It was voluntary."

It was never voluntary. "You drugged my drink," says Jack.

"I don't think I need to anymore, do I?" asks Ba'al, sickly sweet.

Jack tenses his jaw. These shackles are so tight he can't even get the purchase to form a fist, let alone use it. "You keep doing that, I might just forget everything."

"I can always use a new worshipper," says Ba'al. The hand on his nipple lets go and drifts down to his waist. "You're, ah - halfway there already." With the innuendo he adds a smirk.

"Including that thing you want me to remember. That thing you wanted out of the Tok'ra symbiote."

Ba'al stops healing him immediately. His face sobers.

"Yeah, I wouldn't play too much with the brain," sneers Jack, "unless you're sure that sarcophagus includes a memory restore -"

Ba'al slaps him across the face, all kindness forgotten. "That technology is older than your entire race," he says. "I know how it operates. You do not. Do not _presume_."

It's easier to process it like it's a theoretical strategy. It's easier to be mouthy, to piss Ba'al off so that he quits it with the good cop routine. Jack doesn't want to listen too hard to the good cop. Taking Ba'al's cock is bad enough. He has no say in that anyway. When Ba'al decides to play friendly and wrap his arm around Jack's midsection to tug him to completion, to coax and plead him into giving up those Tok'ra secrets, well, that's just playing dirty.

Pissing Ba'al off, that's not just fun, it's necessary. It's a stalling tactic. SG-1 doesn't leave people behind, but unless the Tok'ra are surprisingly forthcoming, and Jack doubts it, rescue may not come for a long time. A dreadfully long time. To stall effectively, Jack needs his wits. He needs to not give in to Ba'al's fuckery.

He needs to piss Ba'al off so much he barely bothers with sex and _definitely_ doesn't bother with seduction, because seduction is what Ba'al's decided to try recently, and Jack's sick of it getting to him. It's perpendicular to reality.

Well, that kinda suits a guy who sticks you in a gravity well when he's bored of you.


End file.
